


heart may freeze

by westhouse



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Car Accidents, Kate's kind of mentioned, M/M, relationships are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 16:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westhouse/pseuds/westhouse
Summary: He’s barely made it through "because" before something changes on the line. At first he thinks it may just be static, but after a heartbeat the noise reveals itself to be metallic, cacophonous. Like the sound of screaming tires.for @cabwaylingo





	heart may freeze

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd so sorry if its like that. tony gets in a car accident for plawt reasonz and mush ensues and hey i guess peppers there for a minute!

It sometimes seems like Tony Stark can’t go anywhere in the world without being followed by, if not physically present press, the looming shadow of them.

This is part of the gig, and Bruce knows that. But he still can’t help being uncomfortable when they try to go out for, say, Korean barbecue and the next day there’s a photograph of him and Tony in some hole-in-the-wall spot on a tabloid cover blaring  **STARK’S NEW BEAU - clandestine meetups in Koreatown!** His distaste for celebrity gossip is enough on its own to fuel the irritation, but now it’s about  _ him. _ And he and Tony haven’t even gone public yet. Which is to say—he and Tony kissed  _ once _ , he apologised profusely and avoided Tony for half a day, and now the guy considers himself obliged to try and woo Bruce through typical means. This has thrown their usual schedule of being absolute nightmares who stay up into the wee hours and usually eat “dinner” past sunrise into chaos; of course, Tony is Tony and he’s simultaneously trying to push Bruce out of his comfort zone and make him loosen the hell up, which has meant a couple of pricey dinners. That, and threats of travel.

It’s sweet. It’s sweet in a misguided sense, which is unfair of him to think. It’s just that despite being a literal genius with a robotics empire beneath him and a net worth that’d make nuns cry, Tony seems absolutely  _ mushy _ —for him, anyway—and distressingly eager to please. He’ll deny it when accused, but he watches Bruce like he’s constantly coming up with the next big gesture. Then he inevitably does come up with the next big gesture, and what’s Bruce going to do except for thank him? One thing is for certain: if he keeps playing the “it’s just not safe for me to be in a relationship, I’m not ready” card, Tony’s going to start openly defaming him to the others for it.

“This is starting to get ridiculous,” he says, frowning at the front page of the magazine. If the media obsession with Tony Stark had ever worn off, then it had only been briefly. The Avengers had officially made sure that no one would ever leave Iron Man alone, not for ten seconds or a holiday weekend. Still, how was he making headlines over a year after it’d all calmed down? They’d kept every deployment as discreet as possible since what had happened with Loki, and yet still... 

“Actually, I think you look great in that picture,” comes Tony’s unsurprisingly smug reply. Next to Bruce, he leans on the table a little like he’s getting a better look, but now they’re shoulder-to-shoulder and it’s blatantly obvious that’s what he was trying to do. “You should smile more. Makes you look younger. That’s why I do it.” Okay, so he  _ is _ smiling in the photograph, and maybe he looks okay. He has no frame of reference for this kind of thing. “You want me to buy it from ‘em?”

Bruce lets out a surprised bark of a laugh. “No.  _ Please _ don’t.” It’s only occasionally that Tony can surprise him saying things like that, but every time he is absolutely delighted by it. It’s infuriating. It’s also attractive, which is the issue that caused that first and last kiss to begin with, and the reason Bruce can absolutely not let his guard down. He has explained this a million times. He can’t be expected to provide everything someone would in a normal romantic relationship, both because of his complicated history with these things and because… well, because of the other guy. But Tony won’t have it. Which he  _ also _ finds charming, and that’s a worse problem than the first.

“I could, and I will,” Tony says quickly. “I’ll do it. Just wait and see.”

“What do you plan on doing with it?”

“It’s not enough to legally own it?” 

“For you? No, I figure it’s probably not,” Bruce shoots back, and breaks away from the table so he can stop looking at his own face.

* * *

“I’m not gonna bullshit you, tell you he  _ likes _ you. It’s not middle school, Doc,” Clint says, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “And you’re also not an idiot.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” snorts Bruce, resisting the urge to put his face down on the countertop and never leave. He supposes Barton is not exactly known for his bedside manner, but there’s no way in hell that Bruce is about to go to Natasha about this. And as for Steve… yeah, no. He is damning himself to a lifetime of “aww” stares no matter who he has a conversation about Tony with. The only significant difference is that he has a fifty-fifty chance of someone trying to talk him out of being interested in Tony if he goes to Steve, which is probably fair. Maybe he  _ should _ be talked out of it. That’s exactly why he’s not doing it.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” Clint watches the surface of his coffee for a second like someone reading tea leaves, then takes about half of it down in one terrifying swig. “Kinda think your whole big green insecurity complex is stupid, ‘f’I’m honest, Doc. You’re gonna have to drop it on your own. No one’s gonna talk you out of it.”

“I don’t  _ want _ anyone to talk me out of it,” Bruce replies, trying to curb some of the bitterness in his tone with a half-hearted smile. “Least of all Tony.”

Clint downs the rest of the coffee and goes to pour himself another cup. His phone, sitting on the table—some kind of trash-fire of a burner with a slide-out keyboard—buzzes a few times and brings up a little blip from  **PRINCESS** . He peers at it curiously and then sighs. “Problem is, he’s about to try anyway. You know it an’ I know it.” Then he heads for the elevator, scooping up his phone and taking the mug with him. “Up to you what you do about it.”

Bruce buries his face in his hands and groans, trying to scare off the inconvenient headache that threatens to further ruin his day.

* * *

The chemistry lab may technically be his for the moment, but naturally Tony thinks it’s his right to show up at any time without warning. Which… well, it’s his tower. So yes—but Bruce has a workflow to maintain. Possibly a terrible, self-destructive workflow, but it’s a workflow nonetheless and Tony should probably respect that kind  _ more. _

He shows up a while past three in the morning, looking as if for once he might actually be ready for bed before sunrise. Their schedule’s been messy, but it drifted back toward normality for a few days. Would’ve kept continuing to drift if Bruce hadn’t got stuck on this. He doesn’t glance over at Tony as he enters the lab, instead continuing to frown into the page of notes he’s currently reviewing. There are countless papers scattered at the end of the desk, which is probably some kind of safety hazard. It’s organised chaos, so he says. “Working hard, or hardly working, big guy?” Tony asks, with a hint of that terrible crooked grin of his.

“Absolutely no reason to call me that,” Bruce replies quietly, finally glancing up. He knows the way he’s been looking lately, somehow more tired than usual and frankly a bit in need of a haircut. It’s a wonder that Tony hasn’t bugged him about that yet, actually. “Little of both, I guess.” He sighs and pushes the paper back, taking his reading glasses off and dropping them into his shirt pocket to rub his eyes. “This thing is an OSHA violation waiting to happen.”

“No, it’s not. You don’t actually work for me,” Tony says. “If it’s such a pain in the ass, why make it?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t, actually. Because you don’t need it. Best case scenario you’re screwing yourself over the next time the world needs you, worst case scenario you’re going to kill yourself, Bruce. You know things are supposed to have cons  _ and _ pros, right?” And here again is the overwhelming frustration that Tony has with this project—the Juliet compound, Bruce had been calling it. The plan was to create a medicine that could temporarily shut off the Hulk—not get rid of him for good, just subdue him for a time. Like Juliet faking her own death: asleep, dormant, until the need arose. The problem was in creating anything that would both work and be stable enough to be useful, not to mention the dosage. It would be incredibly dangerous. But it would also be a solution.

It’s just that Tony doesn’t seem to think there needs to be a solution at all.

“You know, I don’t see the point in arguing about this,” Bruce says carefully. “We’re not going to agree. I mean, we’ve proven decisively that we are  _ never _ going to agree on this, Tony. I understand your outlook. But you also haven’t lived with this for almost a decade, so you… really don’t know.”

They look at each other for a second, and there is unfortunately this spark of an idea in Tony’s eyes that says he’s not letting this go. Historically, he has not  _ ever _ let this go—for some reason he’s inexplicably convinced that Juliet is going to wind up killing Bruce, that it’s more dangerous than he thinks. That there’s an important reason the Hulk exists. “I think I  _ do _ know. I’m kind of a genius,” Tony says, almost combatively, taking a step closer.

“Tony,” Bruce warns, sounding more tired than annoyed.

“I get to know people about twice as fast as anyone else,” Tony says, unfazed. “Probably quicker with you, since we’ve spent all that time cooped up in the workshop being degenerate geeks for… however long.” He hasn’t stopped moving in, and while that’s no surprise, it’s also difficult to focus on anything else when he’s right in front of him. That is probably the  _ point _ , he realises. “You’re not some ticking time bomb just waiting for the right thing to set you off.”

Okay, now he’s irritated. He shouldn’t be, but he is. “How can you possibly believe that? You have been  _ right there _ every time I’ve ever… You know what it’s like, the kind of damage I do. What are you trying to prove, Tony?” He looks him in the eyes, now, stands a little straighter. He’s lucky they’re both short, or else he’d feel dwarfed next to him and probably just look ridiculous; at least Tony only has a slight advantage.

“What am I trying to prove?” Tony echoes, brow furrowing a little for a second. Then he grins. It’s not a particularly friendly grin. “I think you can control it.”

Bruce swallows thickly and, after taking a breath, nudges him aside and starts walking fast toward the exit. “I’m going to bed.”

* * *

Tony is in a cab on his way to an important business meeting with—well, with who-knows-what, but it’s apparently some kind of group of entertainment technology giants. Bruce has no idea what he’s buying or selling today, but the truth is he doesn’t care. Not only is it boring capitalist  _ whatever _ that he doesn’t have time to try understanding, but he’s currently morally opposed to showing too much interest in Tony’s daily activities because they’re in a fight at the moment.

Correction: Bruce and Tony are not in a fight. Bruce is holding a grudge, doing so very poorly because he’s too polite to be actually rude, and Tony is living life as usual.

The truth is, as petty as it sounds, it’s not entirely unjustified. He should probably just talk about it like a well-adjusted human being, which actually is what he’s trying to do. But it’s hard when Tony has no idea and he’s getting either frustrated or excited with his driver’s reckless abandonment of basic driving tenets like  _ following a speed limit, not necessarily the right one, just any of them at any time. _ “Jesus,” he’s saying, voice slightly buzzy with the static of the phone call, “what’s your name?  _ Mark _ ? Thank you, Mark, you’re reminding me to update my last will and testament.”

“This is a bad time,” Bruce says. He is not quite able to peel the disappointment out of his voice, and then is more disappointed at that.

“No! It’s not. Really, it’s not. I’m just trying to dodge fate and destiny here,” Tony says, “and I’m not doing a great job of it. Don’t tell anyone. Talk, though. Please talk. Give me something to think about so I don’t lobotomize myself with a pencil in the boardroom.”

“Look, I just… We’ve got to stop arguing with each other about the—about the other guy, okay? Because—”

“I will stop arguing with you when you see it my way.”

“That’s the problem, Tony! I’m not going to see it your way. Not in a million years am I ever going to see it your way, because your way is…” He’s barely made it through  _ because _ before something changes on the line. At first he thinks it may just be static, but after a heartbeat the noise reveals itself to be metallic, cacophonous. Like the sound of screaming tires. Maybe a swear word somewhere beneath it all—but even over the speaker, the shriek of metal against metal is deafening. “Tony? What the hell was that?” He knows it’s stupid, pointless to ask. The sense of dread has already set in and crept fully to his bones, his heart not yet having decided whether to race or sink. “Tony.  _ Tony _ , are you there?”

Nothing. The line has gone completely, eerily silent.

It might be a second too long before he chokes out, “Jarvis, call 911. For—for Tony. Something…”

“Already done, Dr. Banner,” Jarvis says calmly. 

Great.  _ Now _ his heart has decided, and it’s racing.

* * *

Pepper has to come in on a private jet from across the country, which means that for an excruciating two hours, Bruce is left sitting in the waiting room with nothing to keep him occupied.

He can tell the staff here recognise him. They identified him as  _ Avenger _ enough to get him into the waiting room, at least, which is nice and cozy but still carries the unmistakable smell of hospital. They did not identify him, however, as legally important enough to Tony Stark to allow him in the room.

Naturally, he kind of wants to scream, puke, and die all at the same time. Nothing he could say to these people is going to make it any more reasonable that they let him in, not when they’re thinking about a veritable army of Stark Industries lawyers, anyway. Plus, any of them who have identified him as the Hulk are probably not keen on putting him in any situation more stressful than “hospital waiting room.” Which pisses him off—not properly, but a little. He has done an excellent job of keeping himself together, keeping himself physically calm, even as a storm rages inside his chest.

By the time Pepper shows up, he has pulled himself into the corner of the waiting room couch, staring vacantly at his hands and trying hard not to think. His eyes snap up and focus on her. She looks… worried, and otherwise completely like herself—put together to a fault, gorgeous, sharp-edged and attentive. It’s a relief to see her, and more of a relief that she doesn’t appear to have completely lost it. But she’s tough. “Pepper,” he says, and his voice refuses to come out right. He sounds like he’s been crying although he hasn’t, and worries a little that she’s going to think he has. Bruce clears his throat, stands up unsteadily. “Pepper. Hey. It’s good to, uh… Have they told you anything? Anything at all?” 

If she’s taken aback by what a mess he is, it doesn’t show. Instead she grimaces, even that harsh expression looking somehow elegant on her. “Only a little. Um… Lacerations, from the glass, pretty harsh bruising,” she says, and this seems to pain her somewhat, “possible concussion. One of his—one of his lungs collapsed.” Finally the facade crumbles a little, and she’s tearing up. Clearly she’s not about to  _ cry, _ but she’s unashamed to come close. “He’s ‘stable,’ apparently. They told me I could go in, but I heard you were here and I have to take care of the press anyway and…”

“Fuck the press,” Bruce says, no real vitriol in his words but with a bitterness that feels like it rattles his entire chest. “You don’t  _ have _ to do anything. They can wait.” He isn’t sure if that helps or even if it’s true, but it’s unsettling to see Pepper genuinely upset. “Are you… okay?”

She snorts, takes a second of pause before she answers. “I’m fine. I’m pissed off, actually. Of all the things that could wind up nearly killing him—this. When he gets out of here, he is in for it,” she states, with underlying intensity that makes Bruce worry she might mean it. “What about you? I was told you were…”

“We were on the phone when it happened, yeah,” he says before she has the chance to ask. That fear still hasn’t quite left him, no matter how well he can keep himself under control; the heart he can handle, but the effort just leaves him shaking. “I don’t know. I’m okay.” That is lackluster enough to be an obvious lie. “You should go see him.”

Pepper doesn’t even consider it, instead cutting immediately to, “No, I really need to make sure we’re not causing an uproar. And he wouldn’t want me to stand there staring at his unconscious body, anyway. Too hovery, you know?” There’s almost humour in that, but it falls a little short. She presses the back of one sleeve to her eyes, blinks away any moisture that might threaten. “You should go, though. I let them know it’s okay, and someone should be there.”

“Me,” Bruce says, a little dumbly, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Uh, yes. He sure as hell isn’t going to be hoping he wakes up with Steve Rogers at his bedside, I’ll tell you that much.” Pepper glanced at her watch uneasily. “Go ahead. Don’t get in your head about it, Dr. Banner.”

He snorts, trying to imagine not getting in his head about  _ anything _ . Highly unlikely. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, after what seems like too long, and grabs his jacket from the couch. “Thanks, Pepper. I appreciate it.”

She gives the woman at the desk a slightly withering look to make sure there’s no confusion and then he’s let into the private ward. All he can think is how glad he is that it isn’t the ICU—he’s been there before, sat in what felt like the densest crowd of miserable people he can imagine. It’s the worst place in the hospital. But the private rooms aren’t much better, frankly. The kind of hospital room that Tony Stark gets is like a mirror image of a hotel room, except cool-toned white and grey, medical-equipment greens and blues. It feels sterile enough to make him want to screw it up somehow.

Down the hall on the left is the wide sliding glass door that leads in. On one side the curtain in the room has been drawn, but he has only taken a step in when he sees him.

Tony is never hard to look at, except now he is. It isn’t that he looks like shit, necessarily, because he doesn’t—he just looks unsettling, too peaceful in what must be induced sleep. There are several cuts on his left cheek, one of which must have been deep, and one that looks like it could have nearly split his upper lip near the corner. Under the harsh hospital lighting, the bags under his eyes seem especially prominent, and then there’s… well, the oxygen mask. The bandaging beneath the hospital gown.

Bruce forces himself to stop shaking and sit down. The chair near the bed is not exactly close enough for him, and he tugs it closer as he glances up nervously to check that no nurses are about to fuss at him for it. They’re probably not going to bother him, he guesses. Not right now. And besides that, he is  _ exhausted. _ It’s this selfish but all-consuming exhaustion, this feeling that he’s been worked up for so many hours that his body just wants to give up. 

The bruises up his right arm are dreadful. They’re so bad that the IV was inserted on the other side. Bruce watches the steady drip, feels nothing in particular about it besides the yawning pit of ‘this isn’t happening’ that has opened up in his stomach. After a while he takes Tony’s hand in his own, gently— _ so _ gently, because he can’t stop looking at the bruises, the way there is barely any skin they haven’t marred. “Tony,” he breathes, “I am  _ so _ sorry.”

He doesn’t know what for, doesn’t quite understand the merits or method of his apology. He just has to apologise, because the entirety of the situation falls upon him and all he can think is that he was holding this stupid grudge at the exact moment Tony could have  _ died _ . Holding him at arm’s length, pretending not to give a shit, planning—honestly, planning to leave the tower. Planning to take off for good one morning.

He mutters his apologies and the truth of the matter for what feels like hours until he is too tired to stay upright, and he chances contorting himself in the (surprisingly comfortable) hospital armchair to rest his head on the edge of the bed. It’s only comfortable because he’s curled up, and he’s sure his shoulder will be sore from its awkward position over the armrest, but he can’t leave. So he keeps talking. He doesn’t know when it is he falls asleep.

* * *

For a few hours he only stirs vaguely when nurses come in for one reason or another, checking vitals, making updates. Once or twice he wakes up enough to remember what’s going on, reinforces his grip on Tony’s hand, and intentionally lets himself go back to sleep. Let them not worry about trying to make awkward, sad conversation with him. He’s barely good at that when he’s  _ not _ carving himself out with worry.

The clock on his phone flashes a dim  _ 1:26am _ when something’s different. His hand’s being moved. He blinks himself awake and tries to sit up in order to be contrary, about to ask whoever it is why they have to do that, tell them not to bother—and then his vision focuses in the dim light and he realises it’s Tony squeezing his hand. He watches for a second, dumbfounded, huge dark eyes unblinking.

Tony doesn’t mind his shock, isn’t even fazed. He still looks kind of terrible, and it hasn’t been that long so maybe he  _ should _ , but he appears to have had enough of the whole oxygen mask deal and has dropped it for the time being. “Hey,” he says, and his voice comes out a little raspy but mostly so intentionally quiet that it makes Bruce’s whole chest hurt. He tries to remember if he’s ever heard Tony sound this gentle before. Maybe he hasn’t.

“The—you need to put your mask back on,” Bruce says helplessly, fingers curling around his and his free hand moving as if to make him. 

“I’ll sound stupid,” comes the dejected reply, but Tony relents, seemingly too tired to properly argue. Bruce rests his other hand on his wrist, light as a feather to avoid hurting him. “Hey.” He’s definitely muffled through the mask, but it’s not that bad. Surely not  _ stupid _ and a lot better than a dead Tony Stark.

“Hey,” replies Bruce, finally, but without the same intensity. It feels to him like the least poignant thing to say at the moment. 

“You okay?”

“You are in the  _ hospital, _ ” Bruce emphasizes, not raising his voice but with this kind of desperate incredulity that he can’t place in his own voice. “Am I okay? Who cares? Are you…”

Tony makes a face. It’s his ‘don’t pity me’ face, which seems wildly out of place here. “Nurse told me everything I need to know when I woke up earlier. You were  _ out. _ ” He takes a second to breathe, looking like he’s tired himself out with that sentence. His fingers still press intermittently into Bruce’s hand, like he’s trying to make sure they’re both present.

There is a silence between them for a bit before Bruce finally chokes out, “I thought you were dead.” And then the silence stretches on even longer, Bruce staring at their hands against the miserable pale hospital sheets, Tony staring at him.

“Bruce…” It’s something akin to a sigh, not quite that but not quite anything else. He pulls his hand away just to grab for his wrist, to make him look at him. “I’m not. I’m right here. Still living. Just worse for wear and looking stupid,” he insists, and pauses to breathe again before, “I’ll be out of here in a week tops. You know me.”

The most infuriating thing is that Tony is probably  _ right. _ He has been through Hell and back, has seen some of the worst things mankind has to offer and walked out like nothing’s happened. In the next few days, some of the worst parts of the aftermath are going to rear their ugly heads, but… He’s Tony. He’ll bounce back. And Bruce can’t figure out if he likes that about him or not, because it makes him so damned nonchalant about anything that life throws at him.

“Shut up,” he says quietly, once he’s thought about it. “Don’t comfort me. You were scared. Anyone would be scared.” When Tony makes a noncommittal noise, looking away, he puts a hand gently on his shoulder. “Hey. Tony.”

The tone of his voice, soft and even, gets his attention no matter how hard he’s trying to look tough. He looks over, and the eye contact seems to shatter the facade a little—he goes instantly from Tony Stark just to Tony again, maybe just as irritating but having suffered something today and come out hurt and alone except for Bruce. And it  _ is _ him, every time. Tony swears under his breath, drops his head, slips off the mask again in irritation.

And then Bruce is moving from the chair just enough to pull him in, ever gentle so as not to hurt him but wrapping his arms around him as best he can. “It’s okay,” Bruce breathes, trying to sound even-toned and finally accomplishing it. “You’re okay. I’m here.” He feels Tony shudder in his arms and then weakly, as best he can, return the embrace. He grabs onto Bruce’s shirt and holds with the tightest grip he can manage, like he’s afraid of falling, breathes into his shoulder. “I know,” Bruce is saying, “I know. I’m so sorry, Tony.”

It’s when he kisses the side of his head, barely thinking about it, that Tony completely lets go of his act. He seems to give up and simply collapse into him, whatever thin scaffolding had held him together finally giving in. If there are tears, Bruce doesn’t notice or doesn’t point them out. Tony stays like that for what seems to be a while before finally, quietly, he forces out, “You don’t have to do this.”

“No, I want to,” Bruce whispers. “It’s—it’s okay. It’s fine, I want to be here. You… really scared the shit out of me, Tony.”

“Honestly,” Tony says, “if it takes that to get you to stop avoiding me. Not sorry.”

It isn’t funny, not really, but Bruce has to force a chuckle anyway because there’s nothing else to do. “I’m sorry about that, too. I didn’t…” He breathes out, sighs in a way that he feels is too honest. “Let’s not talk about it now. I can’t. I just—need to be here for you, okay?” And that’s true, though he doesn’t understand exactly why just yet. Or if he does, he’s thoroughly hidden that explanation from even himself.

Tony nods. They let the quiet stand for a time while Bruce, after a little bit, gives in and stroke the back of Tony’s head. It could almost be nice if not for everything else that’s happened today, but even this feels like something limited, graceless. If someone asked him to leave this room, he’s not entirely certain he could.

“I need you here, too,” Tony whispers, so much later that he isn’t sure he really hears it.

When he has, and he knows it for certain, he kisses his head again and all he can say is, “Okay,” over and over like an apology or an incantation.

Eventually the oxygen mask has to go back on, and Tony grimaces as he turns onto his side somewhat, struggles to be as close to the edge of the bed as possible. Bruce compensates by sitting a little uncomfortably, figures in comparison it’s not a big deal. Neither of them lets go until Tony, with some complaint, finally drifts into sleep—a less unsettling, genuine sleep, one that makes him warm and almost peaceful. And only that after he has been promised that Bruce will be there when he wakes.

Outside the window, the late night flashes vaguely with light, colour, and noise. None of it seeps into the room fully, and everything beyond the wide door remains dulled. For now it’s only them.


End file.
